Confusion and Levity in the Black North

 

 

Few poems in the Celtic languages, including Irish, are narrative poems in the standard sense, nor do they fulfill the model of dramatic development that used to be the norm in modern Western literatures. The modern Western artist starts out at point A, where he or she states a theme or scenario. He then goes on to develop the tensions or conflicts inherent in this theme, and eventually arrives at a climax, where the tensions are resolved, or come to rest. The work then stops.

 

In Celtic and Irish poetry, however, the theme is rarely stated outright. The poem instead orbits around it, and the verses offer a succession of varying perspectives on the unstated theme. It is through the cumulative effect of these shifting illuminations that the “meaning” of the poem is precipitated--rather than announced-- in the reader/listener’s mind.  The poet doesn’t presume to say “This is the way it is; no ifs, buts or maybes. This is love; this is the story here.”

He or she rather suggests the outlines of something--the human heart, a particular configuration of relationships, a human being--that is perhaps too complex, ambiguous and mysterious for us know directly. This poetry demands that a reader/listener be a collaborator, rather than simple audience, or consumer of poetry. It demands that a reader/listener engage with the poem and bring it his/her own experience. Only then will the poem open for us.


Here's a song from Donegal. It was published in Dha Chead de Cheoltaibh Uladh, which was edited by Enri O Muirgheasa from County Monaghan in 1934: another great book and it used to be, at least, available from the Government Publications Office for very little money. This song and twenty-four others were sung by Eibhlin Ni Mhuireadhaigh of the Termon area where now no one can speak Irish. She herself never married.

Tá Daoine a’ Radh (People Are Saying)

People are saying that my beloved loves me,
indeed, if he does, well, that’s not unrequited.
In despite to my family and to most of my people,
I’ll satisfy my own little self, were I to live but a season after.

Seán, I thought that you would never leave me,
and I thought then that you’d never tell me a lie.
There’s no fish in Loch Eirne I wouldn’t prepare for your wedding, my love,
and if I could, I’d crown you King of Ireland or a duke in Spain.

I thought that the red rowan berry shone in your cheeks,
I thought that you were the morning star out before me,
you were the loveliest thing I’d see, when I went to the fair,
and dear friend, isn’t it a shame that you deserted me for the sake of dowry?

Don’t you remember that night you and I were in the wood;
there was no one in the world listening to us, only the trees;
the dew there was deepening and it was soaking our feet;
when the bird called out, the morning star shone over our heads.

There you are. I, for one, wouldn't accuse the song of having a conventional Western narrative structure.

This song is not current, and there are no recorded examples I know of. Below instead is an example of Donegal sean-nos singing from one of the greatest living singers from there, Lillis O Laoire. 







Another song from the same singer (Eibhlin Ni Mhuireadhaigh) and the same book. It's one of those simple songs, so don't expect horns and trumpets. I don't know where O Muireadhaigh's papers are today, but he said that he collected many songs from her that he did not put in the book. She deserves a book of her own.

 

 Is Fada Ó Bhaile (It's far from home)

 

It's a far from home that I’d recognize your stride,

your bright black hair under a neat jaunty hat,
the taste of honey on my love’s kiss every morning,
and I’ll be looking for you before November comes around again.

When I get up in the morning and go behind the house,
I spend a while gazing in the airt where I might see my dear.
But now that we’re parted, let them make me a narrow coffin,
and the nettle and green grass will grow through my heart.

Bear my curse to your father and to your mother too,
who didn’t teach you well enough so that you could know my mind:
early in the morning I’d send you an explanation,
to accept my apologies, until we’d meet alone in the wood.

Your eyes are greener than the grass when it's newest,
it's sure I’d weep forever if I heard you were ill;
The men of all Ireland gathered on the one hill,
it's you, my love, that I’d take by the hand, if I could.

Not a ballad.

The video below is also not the song in question, but it's beautiful music from Cor Thaobh a' Leitheid from Gaoth Dobhair (Gweedore). The song is An Bealach Cas Geal, though it's not actually even a song or poetry, as you'll find out.

Please be advised that I have received special permission from the Arts Council to post the following cheerful song. The Irish Language section of the Council stated that though the accepted theme for songs in Irish is sorrow, and that this is thought to be appropriate as a representation of the Irish-speaking community, exceptions can be made in rare instances. 

Baile an Doire, in the song below, is on the shores of Lough Neagh, in south county Antrim. I noted that I translated this song years ago from Ceolta Uladh I, edited by Nollaig O hUrmholtaigh, and that the song is taken from the Bunting collection. I will have to go searching through trunks to solve the mystery of Ceolta Uladh I. I have a photocopy of O'Sullivan's edition of the Bunting Collection of songs, but I don't remember this being in it. 

(Results of further researches: The only thing in Bunting is song #127 there (Vol 28-29, 1932), An Bile Buadhach, where it is noted that verse four of the song bears a resemblance to "Ceol Bhaile an Doire agus a Chronan" that was published in Clairseach na nGaedheal, Part III (1903), number 28; and also to a song O'Toole published  in An Crann, no. 2, p.21: March 1917; and to a song in Morris's Dha Chead de Cheoltaibh Uladh, p. 347. However, there is not anything resembling it in the edition of Morris that I have, the 1974 reprint.)

As regards Ceolta Uladh, I must have meant Ceolta Gael, edited by O Baoill. I once had a copy, but lent it to another, I remember, and never received it back, so cannot look there. But, to tell the truth... that is not likely: O Baoill is not O hUrmholtaigh, who did also, for example, write a book on the Irish of Tory, and therefore must exist, in which case, Ceolta Uladh may then also exist.

Has anyone seen it?

                                                           

Baile an Doire

It's wonderful to be in Baile’n Doire,
It's wonderful to be in Achadh Li;
More wonderful yet to be in Oilean a’ Reithe
sitting under the shade of the ivy trees.

Oh God, were that I was in Oilean a’ Reithe;
oh God, were that Feidhlimidh and I were free;
He’d be whistling while I sang a song,
and our racket would be heard all over the island.

It's wonderful to be in Baile’n Doire;
it's wonderful to be in Machair Lainn;
More wonderful yet to be in Oilean a’ Reithe,
with the birds singing at the top of every tree.

It's wonderful to be in Baile’n Doire;
it's wonderful to be wandering in Tuaim; 
More wonderful yet to be in Oilean a’ Reithe,
under the round tower that’s finest in the north.

It's wonderful to be in Baile’n Doire;
it's wonderful to be in Baile na Maigh;
More wonderful yet to be in Oilean a’ Reithe,
at the foot of the trees while they are flowering.

It's wonderful to be in Baile’n Doire;
it's wonderful to be on the loch of Port Mor;
More wonderful yet to be in Oilean a’ Reithe,
to be in the midst of the wood, making music.

All I can say is that they wouldn't get away with that in Conamara....

Just to recover from the levity above, here's a song from east Galway published in Amhrain Mhuighe Seola, edited by Mrs. Costello, published by Talbot Press in 1923. The book is the main published source for East Galway songs (Tuam area), a tradition that now has died, unless it's the occasional Irish song that Rita Keane of Caherlistrane who died recently, used to do. The fact of those deaths, I hope, will finish off any cheeriness left over from what's just above. My mother's grandmother was a native speaker from that area (Abbeyknockmoy), and I needn't mention that she is dead as well.

There's a somewhat recent cd of songs from this book, sung by revivalist singers, but it misses the boat, in my opinion.

The song was recorded from the Hession family.


Go Dtagadh an Nollaig  (Until Christmas Would Come)

Until Christmas will come in the middle of Summer,
until I run a race through the middle of Loch Riabhach,
until the shamrock grows through the boards of my coffin,
no portion of my love for you will depart from my heart.

I wish sorrow on this love, for it's a black affliction
it left my poor heart inside as black as the coal,
it left my poor head without a single ounce of sense,
and my mind and my courage are racing away from me.

 

 Rita and Sarah Keane, the younger Rita Keane's aunts, and from the same area, of course, sing in Irish in 1968.